Peter Lovesey: Bloodhounds

"It didn't bother me at all. Really."

It seemed that Polly identified so closely with the Bloodhounds that the incident upset her personally. But as the conversation went on, recapitulating the meeting, it became cleat that she was agitated about something more than Rupert's dog. She skirted the matter for some time, retelling the story of the club's beginning over that dinner at the Pump Room in October 1989, even using the same phrase about the deceased founder member, Tom Parry-Morgan: "… now dead, poor fellow." Then she started recalling the names of people who had joined, stating the reasons why some had left, as if it was important to stress that they hadn't all been put off by Rupert. "There was Annie Allen, a very old lady who gave up because of the cold evenings; a young chap who was more interested in films than books. Now what was his name? Alan Jellicoe. Another man, Gilbert Jones, was out of his depth, I think, and lasted only three weeks. The Pearce sisters found that the evening clashed with lacemaking when the evening classes started up." The list continued: Colonel Twigg, who wandered in by mistake, thinking it was about crime prevention; Marilyn Slade-Baker, the delinquent girl, whose probation officer stopped her from coming; the Bentin family, just visiting from Oklahoma. More names followed.

Shirley-Ann wasn't counting, but upward of fifteen had dropped out, and that seemed a high figure. Of the surviving six, Polly and Milo had been the founders; the formidable Miss Chilmark had joined soon after and bored everyone with The Name of the Rose ever since; then Rupert had arrived one evening looking like a convict after two weeks on the run; shy Sid had been introduced by his doctor; and Jessica had joined only last year. "You could write a thesis about our reasons for sticking with it," she summed up. "All sorts of motives."

"What's yours?" Shirley-Ann asked.

Polly seemed derailed by the suddenness of the question. "I haven't really asked that of myself. I have my own thoughts why the others continued to come. I suppose I like being at the center of something. The others seem to regard me as the mainstay. And I do enjoy crime novels."

"And Milo? Why does he come?"

"For the companionship, I suspect, though he is the sort of man who joins everything he can. He's a long-standing member of the Sherlock Holmes Society, and Lord knows how many other clubs. The Agatha Christie, the Dorothy Sayers, the Edgar Wallace, the Saint. He belongs to them all, and others, I'm certain."

"Has he given up work?"

"He's a retired civil servant."

"I thought he must be."

"Milo is single. Not overattracted to women, I get the impression, though he's perfectly sweet to us ladies, as men like that usually are. He lives alone, on one of those narrow-boats on the canal. He calls it the Mrs. Hudson, after Holmes's housekeeper. A beautiful gleaming boat almost entirely covered in pot plants. We've had a couple of Bloodhound meetings on board. In fact, we had the last Christmas party there."

"He's there through the winter as well?" said Shirley-Ann in surprise.

"Oh, I think a narrowboat can be quite snug in the cold weather. It certainly was when I was aboard."

"I wouldn't care to live on a boat. You never know who's walking along the towpath, do you?"

"It takes all sorts, as they say. Did you find any like spirits among the others?" Polly probed, all too obviously.

"Jessica went to some trouble to welcome me."

Polly said stiffly, "I noticed that you went for a drink with her after the meeting."

"Just while the rain stopped, yes."

"She is quite an asset to the club," Polly admitted, but grudgingly. Her habitual warmth of spirit seemed suddenly to have cooled, and Shirley-Ann realized that this was what she must have been so agitated over. For some unknown reason it had been a mistake to be seen leaving with Jessica.

"She's up with all the latest books," Shirley-Ann remarked, trying to be neutral.

"Yes." Polly took a sip of her coffee, and the blue eyes watched over the rim. "And she can be helpful at taking the steam out of discussions when they get overheated. She has a sharp sense of humor, which I like. She's very bright, I'm sure of that."

Out with it, then, thought Shirley-Ann. How did she get up your nose?

Polly was saying, "She runs that art gallery in Northumberland Place."

"She told me. The Walsingham."

"I think she part-owns it."

"I" got that impression."

"We all have a standing invitation to drop in for a cup and a chat." Polly was still testing the water.

"She did mention it."

"It's not for me to interfere," Polly went on. "It's no business of mine, but I think you should be careful. Jessica is deeper than she first appears."

"Deeper-what does that mean?"

"I'd rather not say any more than that." Her gaze shifted away, over Shirley-Ann's shoulder. "What's going on over there, do you suppose?"

Shirley-Ann turned. A policeman in uniform, rather senior from the look of his uniform, was standing with two other men in the passageway that leads to Broad Street. They were taking a lot of interest in the roof, or possibly an upper window of the building on the right.

"That's the Postal Museum," said Polly.

"Yes. When you say Jessica is 'deep,' do you mean she has secrets, or something?"

Polly's mind was no longer on Jessica. "I wonder if there's been a break-in. Some of those stamps are valuable. Have you ever been in?"

"Ages ago."

"What a shame, if someone has broken in. It's a lovely little museum, entirely staffed by volunteers, I believe."

"It might be nothing. They could be checking the security."

"Let's hope that's all it is." Polly looked at her watch. "I have enjoyed our chat. And you will come next week, won't you? It's so encouraging to have a new member, especially such a well-read new member."

"I'll be there if I possibly can."

"Wonderful. I'll pay for this. I insist, my dear. And I can't help jt-I'm going to ask the policeman what's happened."

"A case for Inspector Maigret, perhaps," said Shirley-Ann, but the remark wasn't heard. Polly had dropped a five-pound note in the dish that came with the bill and was striding across the yard.

After their coffee together, Shirley-Ann liked Polly a little less than she had on first acquaintance.

An air of urgency was gusting through Manvers Street Police Station when Peter Diamond and Julie Hargreaves returned from Saltford. Constables and civilians carrying faxes, files, and clipboards hotfooted it along the corridors. Phones were cheeping like cicadas. Diamond stopped a chief inspector and asked, "What's up? Everyone's behaving as if King Kong dropped in."

"It's the ruddy media," he was told. "They won't leave us alone."

"What media? The Bath Chronicle?"

"The nationals. Mainly the tabloids. Not to mention radio and TV. They're driving John Wigfull spare."

"Why? What do they want?"

"A statement on the break-in. He's due to give one shortly, but they won't wait."

"What break-in?"

"Where have you been all day? Someone did the Postal Museum last night and pinched the world's oldest stamp."

"In Bath? I didn't know we had the world's oldest stamp."

The chief inspector managed a weary grin. "We don't anymore.

It emerged that the world's oldest stamp was not normally kept in the Postal Museum, but had been loaned by the owner (whose identity was a secret) for a special exhibition. It was in the city of Bath on May 2, 1840, that the Postmistress mistakenly date-stamped an unknown number of letters bearing the new Penny Blacks four days before the service was due to start. An envelope bearing the famous stamp and date had survived for over a century and a half.